Summer at the Little Wedding Shop: The hottest new release of summer 2017 - perfect for the beach!

My efforts at ‘delighted’ are falling flat then. But on the up side, this might be the first time in my life my mum has seen me in jeans and not complained. Come to think of it, she’s pretty dressed down herself, in button through floral silk, and fluffy sheepskin mules. What’s more, as I follow her down the hall, the accent wallpaper hasn’t changed since my last visit. Back in January I’d have sworn the yellow and grey geometric print was on its way out. My mum’s always been obsessed with redecorating, but since my dad died she does it before the paint has even dried. Although, thinking about it, most of that time since then, she’s been away with her bestie, Jenny. Lately, if my mum hasn’t been up to her ears in home makeovers, she’s been away on a cruise.

As we turn into the living area, I close my eyes. No idea what’s coming, but I’ll try not to pre-judge. When I open them again, there’s a figure standing by the French doors, looking out to the lawn. I have to smother a pang that my dad used to stand in the same spot doing just that. He loved to unwind on the golf course. Then he’d come home for what he called his ‘garden gazing’. Whenever I visited I’d stand there beside him, and join in. Nod as he pointed out his latest Tinkerbell primulas, poured out his hopes for his Grandissimo violas. Smile at the promise of sweet peas with dreamy names like Cherub Northern Lights, Berry Kiss, or Cream Eggs.

The funny thing is that arranging my dad’s blooms for the village show as a kid was how I discovered I could throw flowers into a jam jar in a way that made them look better than everyone else’s. Back then he called me his lucky charm. It’s true, he never won when he arranged his own. Better still, somewhere along the line, I found out that picking flowers, and making them look pretty made me happy in a way nothing else did. Dad always claimed his first prize for sweet peas back in nineteen ninety-two was the reason I became a florist. It’s one of those family legends we’ve heard so often, we all believe it now.

But this is no time to drift off into the past. And we certainly won’t be talking about it today. I drag myself back to the figure by the window. Force myself to refocus, and begin again. Believe me, ‘tight bum’ is not the second thought you want to have about any of your mum’s mates, least of all her fiancé. But there’s no other way to describe what’s facing me. This particular backside could give Bruce Springsteen’s a run for its money. At least this explains why my mum lost her life-long aversion to denim.

As he turns, I stick out my hand. ‘Nice Levis, I’m Lily.’ I’m willing the front view to be older than the back. Because, holy crap, I’ve heard about these young guys who hook up with needy widows on Match dot whatever, and bleed them dry. I’d just never in my wildest nightmares considered it could be happening to my mum.

‘And this is David.’ My mum’s eyes are popping as if she’s holding her breath, though I can’t see why she’d be doing that.

There’s a vague recollection as a blond guy in a sharp Superdry polo-shirt, walks towards me. ‘Nice to meet you properly. We met briefly before?’ And while he is older than his back view, he still has to be years younger than my mother.

Trying not to gawp at his slippers that match my mum’s, I’m going the extra mile here to show I remember, even though it’s hazy. ‘You’re David. The electrician?’

His expression is bemused. ‘Not quite, I’m a personal trainer.’ Which might explain the neat back view.

I throw him a lifeline. ‘I was thinking of the lightbulb changing?’ One lifeline wasn’t enough, so I hurl out another. ‘When we met on the stairs at Christmas?’

‘Oh that.’ From the way his face brightens, he’s hugely relieved he’s finally caught up. ‘Of course. Love at first light. Wasn’t it, Barbs?’ He winks at my mother, and laughs.

Bad puns, laughing at his own really awful jokes, and calling my mum Barbs? All in the space of two seconds? There’s only so much assault a person’s guts can take. If my mum’s waste paper bin hadn’t been hand-painted with dragonflies, with a three-figure price tag, I’d have vomited in it. If this David was on three strikes and you’re out, he’d already be down the road. And that’s before we get onto the winking.

‘Anyway, now that’s gone so swimmingly, shall we move on with tea, dahling?’ My mum’s voice is strangely strangled.

The nod she gives David must have conveyed something exceedingly significant I missed. I’m about to offer to help, but he’s already in the kitchen. I make a mental note to remember, I’m not the only dahling round here anymore.

My mum skips after him. ‘So young, yet so well trained.’ There might even be a whisper of the word ‘toy boy’, followed by a muffled shriek. But from the way they both erupt into giggles, I assume that was meant for him not me.

Right now, I’m wishing I’d taken Poppy up on her offer to come too. At least then, when we talked about this afterwards, she could tell me I hadn’t imagined it.

My dad always sat in the chair on the right of the fireplace. The wood burner and the chair have both had an upgrade, but plumping myself down in that position, at least I feel like I’m holding on. Although I’m not quite certain what it is I’m hanging on to. And I’m pretty sure it’s futile. Even the thought of the coming cake doesn’t cheer me up.

When they finally come back, a whole load of laughing later, my mum’s carrying the teapot, and he’s pushing her hostess trolley.

‘So I’ve got you your favourite French Fancies, but David’s low carb gluten free, because it’s Wednesday,’ my mum says, as if that explains anything. ‘So sandwiches are chicken and pesto, tuna and rocket. Both on special wholemeal, with pine kernels.’ Whatever happened to mum’s plain old egg and cress?

When it comes to pouring, their moves are so coordinated, they could almost be on Strictly. If they’re like this serving tea, their first dance is going to rate an off-the-scale 12 across the board. I offer up a silent plea that there won’t be any twerking.

I can’t stay silent forever, so I accept a pink iced lozenge from the cake plate my mum’s holding, and launch. ‘So, big congrats, how did you guys get together?’ Somehow the word ‘engagement’ won’t come out.

My mum beams at me over her tea. At least she’s stayed true to her Gordon Ramsay china. ‘We met at the gym. But it was the cruise that really cemented things.’

My cup slams down so hard, most of the tea slurps into the saucer. ‘The cruise you went on to New York after Christmas … with Jenny?’ It’s high voice time again.

She nods, apparently impervious to any suggestion of deception on her part. Although she makes a lightning change of subject. ‘You really should try the gym, Lily. You look as if you could do with the exercise, and who knows, you might meet someone there too. All those miles alone in your car can’t be good for your dress size or your single status. As Jenny says, it’s back to front. You should be the one getting married really, not me.’

I take a second to reel at the insults. On balance, it’s best not to count them. At least she missed out her favourite topic, how I could make more of myself if I dressed like her.

My smile is as sweet as the French Fancy I still haven’t started yet. ‘Except I don’t want another husband – whereas, I take it you must, given you just got engaged.’

David puts down his tuna roll, without taking a bite. ‘When something’s this good, life’s too short to mess around wasting time.’

Cliché alert. Did you ever hear so much drivel in one sentence? I’d feel more inclined to believe David if I were certain he meant my mum, rather than her bank account. This early, who can tell? Although when it comes to choosing partners, I’m the last person to talk.

I let my eyes slide towards the garden for a few seconds’ respite. Big mistake. How could I have forgotten my mum pegs her washing out all year round as long as it isn’t raining? I’m staring straight at the rotary dryer, and the line of underpants I see hanging there almost brings sick into my mouth. Variations on the Superhero theme. It’s so not helpful to know your future step-dad wears Batman briefs. Although given how many pairs there are hanging there, it’s a pretty good indication he’s moved in.

‘Summer’s a fabulous time for a wedding.’ It’s a squeak, to move my mental image on from flapping boxers. Okay, it doesn’t exactly follow on, but I’m talking in the general sense, so I’m not being a hypocrite. ‘Lucky I’ll be here to help.’

‘You will?’ My mum can’t hide her immediate breathy panic. ‘How come?’

I sense I need to back pedal. ‘I’ll only help if you want me to.’ Then I push on to get the next bit over. ‘Jess made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, so I’ll be working at Brides by the Sea in the styling department. Doing flowers, and lots more. As of next week.’ Hopefully the spin will make it shine.

My mum’s face falls. ‘But what about your lovely hotel job?’ Believe me, it’s never had praise that glowing before.

Saying it out loud is a wake up call. St Aidan is not a consolation prize. It’s a safety net I’m choosing to throw myself into. As Jess says, it doesn’t have to be forever.

Not every question needs a straight answer. At least this time smiling brightly is easier than it was earlier. ‘I’ll be living over the shop. Good timing for discounts too.’

‘Great.’ Her expression doesn’t match the word. ‘We’ve decided to stay local for the wedding anyway. Get married in the village.’

‘Brilliant.’ I couldn’t cope with a ‘destination’. At least this means a welcome extra booking for Rafe and Poppy. ‘The farm house at Daisy Hill will be ready for then too. And weddings there are so fabulous. There’s even a grand piano.’ Despite myself, I almost feel a flurry of excitement.

‘The farm?’ My mum sends David a wild-eyed glance. ‘Actually we’ve rather set our heart on …’

David holds up his hand. ‘No Barbs, we haven’t decided anything yet. Don’t let Lily think it’s a fait accompli.’ He turns to me. ‘We’re going to have a second look at Rose Hill Manor. We were there this morning. And it ticked a lot of boxes.’

Oh shit. A personal trainer who speaks French too. That’s me put in my place. It’s already in the bag. ‘Lovely.’ It comes out as a rasp. So Mr Penryn wasn’t lying about his booking rush. Damned ironic that it was my mother though.

My mum’s wringing her hands. ‘You know me, I was never one for mud.’

Which reminds me, I’ve been here for what feels like an age, and I still haven’t caught a glimpse of the ring yet.

David goes on. ‘You could come with us to the Manor next time? As you’re in the business now.’

Talk about walking on eggshells. Although it’s a surprise he’s butting in, when this is between me and my mum.

‘I don’t want to intrude.’ If I had any sense, I’d keep right out of this. Viewing wedding venues with love birds has to be the ultimate gooseberry activity. Although if they’re anything like Thom and me, they’ll be at each other’s throats soon enough. But I’m torn, because for Poppy and Rafe’s sake, I should be jumping at the offer. It’s the perfect opportunity to check out what that damned Penryn is playing at. ‘Actually, yes, thanks for asking me. I’d love to come with you.’

My mum’s face crumples in horror, and her mouth opens. She knows all about brides getting railroaded. And wedding interference. She perfected the art when Thom and I married. But before her protest has time to hit the air, a figure appears on the grass outside, and there’s a knock on the French window.

‘It’s only Fred bringing logs.’ As she gets up there’s a gleam in her eye.

I catch my breath when I hear the name. Which is a complete accident.

‘He’s from a very nice farm, Lily. And sells the driest wood in the area. You could do a lot worse.’ By the time her hand lands on the door handle, she’s fixing me with her ‘now or never’ stare.

Here we go. This is what I have to put up with. ‘A “nice” farm? That would be one without mud then?’ I say.